the wandering wallahttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com
a walla who wanders and wondersFri, 09 Feb 2018 03:10:36 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://tulsimorton1.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/cropped-railway.jpg?w=32the wandering wallahttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com
3232How to live in India with almost no moneyhttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/02/08/how-im-living-in-india-with-almost-no-money/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/02/08/how-im-living-in-india-with-almost-no-money/#respondThu, 08 Feb 2018 08:00:56 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1533More How to live in India with almost no money]]>

I came to India two months ago with no plans and almost no money in my bank account. Now, I’m living in a house with my boyfriend, with a comfortable lifestyle and almost no income. How do we do it? There are a number of ways we are able to survive without selling our souls to money.

Make food at home

Very quickly into my trip I noticed how much money I was spending on food. Even though it’s dirt cheap compared to prices at home, everything is relative over here. If you want to start saving money, you have to think of expenses relative to the costs in India. Sometimes, if you’re staying in a hostel, you won’t have the chance to cook in a kitchen. But if you do, make the most of it! Plus, it’s a great opportunity to practice your skills at making local food.

2. Eat at local restaurants

In India, the prices for tourists inflate to twice or triple the local prices, even if you’re told you’re getting a good price. This goes for food too. When you’re travelling, do as the locals do! Eat the specialties of the area. Go to the small, local restaurants where you can see locals eating. It might not be as fancy as a tourist restaurant, but the food will be half the price and more delicious.

Don’t drink alcohol

This point might not be a popular one, but it’s the truth. Alcohol is expensive, and if you make drinking it a regular habit, you’re going to spend a lot of money on it. If you’re a long term traveller who is serious about saving money, this will save you a considerable amount. If you’re really bent on drinking, go for spirits over beer or buy in bulk.

Don’t stay in hostels

Although you may not be in the position to stay in one place for an extended period of time, I found that renting a house with my boyfriend for one month cut my accommodation costs dramatically. When I was staying in a hostel, I was paying 400 Rs per day for my own bed and a shared bathroom (and a roommate who snored). Now, my boyfriend and I are paying 250 Rs a day each for our house (15,000 Rs per month) which has a bathroom, kitchen, garden, living room, and best of all, privacy!

Volunteer

Volunteering is a great way to gain knowledge, meet people and save some money. There is a plethora of volunteering opportunities in India; just decide on your area of interest and go from there. Through volunteering you may be offered free meals throughout the day (like I was when I volunteered at an international primary school for a few weeks) or accommodation (like my boyfriend when he volunteered at a hostel), or both!

Trade your skills

Money isn’t the only form of currency. Trading your skills is another brilliant way to exchange your time or services and get something in return. For example, a friend of mine is a master in remedial massage, another friend is a talented musician, and another is a woodcarver. All three trade their knowledge with other people and get something in return, and all they have to do is teach others the thing they love. Sounds good to me.

Sell your skills

If you’ve got a skill that you can make money from, don’t be shy. Advertise yourself! You never know what other travellers might need. Web design, hair cutting, ukulele lessons, or even just busking on the street – give it a try, you have nothing to lose. Stick up some posters around town, advertise on your local community page, make friends and let them know what you offer. You might be surprised.

Work online

Travelling is no longer an obstacle for reaching the internet. In India, the internet speeds are sometimes faster than Australia. Buy yourself a 4G SIM card, or use the Wifi at a cafe or your hostel. The internet is everywhere, and you can make good use of it. Whatever skills you have, use them. My boyfriend does computer programming for clients online, and I do freelance writing. If you can make money through blogging, Youtube tutorials, business online, anything, do it!

Spend your money wisely

This one is pretty straightforward, but still worth mentioning. Spend your money on necessities and make it last. Don’t buy things that aren’t essential to your survival and comfort; for example, new clothes or touristy trinkets aren’t really going to make your life better, but if you want to start doing yoga, invest in a yoga mat. In order to survive, you need to be happy; don’t deprive yourself of all creature comforts, but make smart decisions.

Choose the cheapest transport

If you’re living somewhere and need to rent a scooter or motorbike, it’s best to rent it for long term as this is always cheaper. If you’re travelling around, always get the local bus or ride in third class on the trains. It might not be as comfortable as the tourist transport (and you won’t get air-con), but you’ll save a lot of money and you’ll have a more authentic travelling experience.

Make friends with the locals

Make friends everywhere you go, or engage in conversation with a stranger sitting next to you (if you feel safe to do so). You will be surprised at how much useful knowledge you will gain from being friends with the locals – they know all the tricks and corners to cut. As well as showing you ways to save money by acting like a local, you will also understand the culture and people around you more. Absorb yourself in the culture and ways of the people around you, and you will be rewarded in more ways than just saving money.

Learn to haggle

This is so important in India. As I mentioned before, no matter what shopkeepers tell you, the first price they offer is always double the price they will settle on. I repeat: the first price you are offered is always double the price you can get. Learn to haggle. Watch others doing it, learn methods from your local friends. And don’t feel bad about haggling; this is how people do business in India, and if you end up compromising on a price, all you’re doing is losing money. It’s harsh, but true.

If you follow these twelve points, you should be able to survive anywhere in the world with very little money. Happy saving!

At this time of day, the shadows begin to grow. The sky loses its piercing blue and fades into a milky hue smudged with smog. In the distance, low hills line the horizon. Before them lie houses in the distance surrounded by seas of palm trees. And before these, the fields divided by low brick walls are charred black.

The farmers who live on this land were preceded by their ancestors, who tended these same fields with care. Their ancient methods of landcare have not gone unremembered, and in the dry season they remove the grass on these pieces of land by lighting the earth on fire. With flames licking up to their balconies, the farmers encourage these fires to eat anything in its way until all that is left on the land is charred and dead.

The pilgrimaging cow herds that amble through these fields on their daily searches for food pause along the way, pushing their noses into piles of discarded building materials or burnt bushes in hope of something edible. When they have proven unlucky and every member of the herd has moved on, the leader, protector, who stands behind them watching , head held high and crowned with horns, finally leaves too.

Honks and beeps can be heard echoing against the mountains as daily life continues in the town. Other noises can be heard more clearly out here too, like the clanking sound of glass bottles being transported in the same container, someone hammering steadily, the voice of the old mataji conversing with her neighbour over their compound walls, the call of a murder of crows that hover over some unseen prey, the high pitched tweet from other birds, the rumble or whine of a motorbike.

The seasons here are polar opposites. Now, in the dry season, shades of brown and dark green paint the landscape. Many trees are skeletal from fire or thirst. The streets are full of people on motorbikes, scooters, in cars, walking, shopping, eating, laughing, watching, in the night the lights turn on and there is music, dancing, dinner, the drum circle, talking, loving, sleeping. The nights are cool and the days are hot.

I imagine the wet season, with vibrant trees and a landscape bursting with green, rain quenching the land, the sky grey and fertile, the croaking of frogs, the silence of the night and the absence of beeping, honking, talking, eating, crowds of people, motorbikes, scooters and cars, the water gushing in rivulets through the fields as tiny green sprouts push through the soil. Cleansing, regrowth, renewal. Isn’t it humbling when humans are forced to retreat under the power of nature’s might?

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/20/1526/feed/0tulsimosunsetWhere do you belong?https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/19/where-do-you-belong/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/19/where-do-you-belong/#commentsFri, 19 Jan 2018 10:49:54 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1524More Where do you belong?]]>‘Where do you come from?’ As a traveller, most conversations I have with strangers begin with this. My reflex answer is ‘Australia’, but recently I have felt that this answer isn’t adequate. Yes, I was born in Australia, but does that mean I belong there? To ‘come from’ and to ‘belong’ are different things, and in today’s interconnected world of globalisation, the concept of belonging has no easy definition.

As a teenager, I struggled to find out which social niche suited me. I changed my clothes and hair regularly as I tried on different personas, but none seemed to fit quite right. I couldn’t seem to figure out which group I belonged to. Self-consciousness plagued me and I spent my late teens and early twenties depressed. When I came out the other side, I found that I had stopped caring about how I appeared to other people. For the first time in my life I was happy with who I am. And that’s when I began to understand that belonging goes so much deeper than identifying with social groups, fashions, cultures and countries. Belonging comes from the soul.

I grew up on the east coast of Australia, near Byron Bay. My childhood was spent playing in nature and making things. As an only child, I had to be creative with my time, and I grew to value solitude. I liked to write, draw, dance, and make little worlds for myself and my toys. With a Scottish father and Australian mother, I was raised with an innate understanding of the (non)differences between cultures. My parents joined the Hare Krishnas (a religion similar to Hinduism) when they were in their mid-twenties, so I grew up in a home with influences from all over the world. I was raised with ideologies originating from the Vedas like karma, reincarnation, belief in the soul and strict vegetarianism, as well as adopting the Indian style of clothing like most Hare Krishnas do. Our house was home to a constantly rotating group of travellers and Hare Krishnas, and I was parented by a collection of people from all over the world.

But like most Australians with foreign descent, I felt that I never truly belonged to Australia, or I didn’t have the right to belong to it. With Scotland on the other side of the world, it was only in my early twenties that I had the chance to explore the country where 90% of my heritage comes from. Even then, I felt like an outsider with my Australian accent and dislike of the cold. It is not enough to have a percentage in your bloodline, and it is not enough to have been born in a place that belongs to another people.

When I was ten, I went to India for the first time. My memories from that age are hazy, but I remember many specific memories from this trip. For a month, my parents and I lived with a local family in a small village a few hours away from Kolkata. Two years later, we made this trip again. Many of my memories from this experience are few but sensory, and for the rest of my life I experienced flashbacks that took me back to India every time I heard or smelled something specific. Because of these experiences as a child, or the strong eastern influences in my upbringing, I spent the rest of my life longing to go back to India. I felt a calling that I couldn’t brush away. A part of me longed for a culture I could identify with that compensated for my half-Australian, half-Scottish, half-lost identity.

At the age of 24, twelve years after the last time I had been there, I went back to India. By this time, I had traveled to 17 other countries, finding places I can call home in each one. The more I travelled, the more I realised that people are not defined by the country they ‘belong’ to. To be human means to be made up of a pastiche of experiences, memories, places, people, understandings, beliefs, skills, desires, and dreams. A person can – and usually does – belong to multiple cultures, especially with the events of globalisation and monoculturalism in the recent decades.

When I came to India for the third time, I didn’t expect to find the missing puzzle piece to my identity. And thank god I didn’t, because I would have been sorely disappointed. Instead, I came with no expectations. It was enough for me to be in India. And as it usually turns out, I ended up exactly where I needed to be: Arambol, Goa. In this place I found a community of people exactly like me, travelling the world and seeking a place where home and belonging are defined by what is in the heart, not where you were born. I found a family of brothers and sisters who I had so much in common with except our passports. Here, I can connect with my roots in Northern NSW, Australia, but also the sense of humour I inherited from my Scottish side, my love of spicy Indian food and their easy-going demeanour, my appreciation of Japanese politeness, the strength of character I learned from the Nepalis during the 2015 earthquake, and all the little bits and pieces of the places and people I have known throughout my life.

I belong here; I belong everywhere. My family is scattered throughout all the countries on this planet. I am a global citizen.

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/19/where-do-you-belong/feed/4tulsimoWhy I’m living in Arambol, Goahttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/19/why-im-living-in-arambol-goa/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/19/why-im-living-in-arambol-goa/#respondFri, 19 Jan 2018 08:15:21 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1522More Why I’m living in Arambol, Goa]]>I first heard of Arambol through a friend. We were sitting on the steps of our hostel on a humid morning, watching the city of Galle, Sri Lanka, run its daily course of existence. I had a flight to India in two weeks, and no idea of where to go or what to do when I got there. I prefer recommendations from fellow travelers rather than guidebooks, so when my friend told me about the artists hostel in Goa I must visit, I made a mental note to remember it.

Three weeks later, I found myself standing at a train station somewhere on the west coast of India, completely lost. Wearing my backpack and carrying my ukulele, I was losing hope. The train timetable I found online was different to the real life timetable, and a direct route to my destination, Hampi, didn’t seem to exist. Nor did an indirect route. I was searching Google Maps again for an answer when I realised that there was a direct sleeper train to Goa. I remembered the hostel my friend had raved about, so I decided to stop there for one night before moving on to Hampi.

A train, a taxi, and three buses later, I arrived in Arambol. Like most bus stops in India, there were no signs or markings (it seems that you have to instinctively know where they are) and I was unceremoniously thrown off the bus into an intersection busy with scooters, motorbikes, cars, trucks and cows. Although still a novice at the art of crossing the road in India, I managed to cross it and find my hostel. Sitting on the top of a hill, the white three-storey building has a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. After settling in, I admired the view from the balcony and imagined wild elephants roaming the grassland at night. I soon found out that the nocturnal wildlife mostly consists of cats and dogs. Even so, I was captivated by this place and its energy. And so began my stay in Arambol.

One night turned into three nights, then a week, and now, I’ve passed a month here. What, you must be wondering, is so special about this place when I have the whole of India to explore? Perhaps the answer lies in how Arambol came into existence. Before the 1960s, Arambol did not exist. Then, with the birth of the hippy movement, long haired foreigners began to explore the unexplored parts of India in search of a sanctuary away from the system. Back then, Arambol was little more than a beach and overgrown jungle. In other words, the perfect hippy hideaway. Soon, more people caught on to the secret, and within a few decades the small town beckoned to artists from around the world. Today, Arambol is a place for like-minded people to gather, create, share, learn and chill out. Some people have been returning every season for ten years, some longer. Arambol attracts the kind of people who create not because they want to, but because they have to. As my partner said, if you have a project you want to finish, Arambol is the place to do it.

What makes this place unforgettable is the feeling that anyone with a good heart is accepted. The community, made up of people from all walks of life, are united by their common love of creativity, playfulness, music, dance, and individuality. I spend my days here making music, painting, writing, reading books, talking, doing yoga, meditating, swimming in the ocean, learning new skills, sharing my skills, seeing live music, dancing, and meeting new people. In other words, I spent every day doing what my heart desires with beautiful people around me. And that’s why I’ve lived in Arambol for a month and counting.

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2018/01/19/why-im-living-in-arambol-goa/feed/0tulsimoBirds fly because they have wingshttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/20/birds-fly-because-they-have-wings/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/20/birds-fly-because-they-have-wings/#respondWed, 20 Dec 2017 03:36:38 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1519More Birds fly because they have wings]]>birds fly because
they have wings
what else could
lure them out of their nests
plumetting, flailing
toward certain death
below?

skeletal and featherless
but with one purpose
fly or die.
nature grants no allowances
or exceptions
no second chances
this is it.
go.

humans have no wings
nor gills, scales
fins, tails
death is bad luck, not
a certainty
if you fall out of
your nest, just
climb back up

what are our wings?
what allows us to soar?
think about it; pause
feel it beating in your chest
remember the first time
it got broken?
you jumped from the nest but
the wind failed you

pause; feel it beating

remember the first time
you flew?
weightless, buoyant,
dipping through clouds
you never imagined
it could feel like this
this is purpose, meaning
fulfilment
this is destiny

then a stutter,
plumetting.

perhaps humans are
luckier than birds
for if our wings fail,
we fall to the ground
dust ourselves off
and launch ourelves into
the sky again

birds fly because they have wings
humans live because they have love

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/20/birds-fly-because-they-have-wings/feed/0tulsimoThe sun does not rise by mistakehttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/the-sun-does-not-rise-by-mistake/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/the-sun-does-not-rise-by-mistake/#commentsTue, 19 Dec 2017 03:56:17 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1514More The sun does not rise by mistake]]>rooftop, sunrise beyond the hills
I am calm like the unseen sun,
I tell myself
breathing with deliberation and
feeling nothing but the wind.

but my emotions fight back
throwing pebbles into my calm pool
of thoughtlessness
and I am a boat bobbing on the surface
unable to control the movement
of the water under me

I hear the words
he said and I said
bitter anger at a friendship lost
over something so trivial
and the sad realisation that
if fear did not devour him
I could have saved our friendship

the sun’s forehead peeks over
the edge of the earth
immovable but for its’ own path
just like me
moving the only way I can;
forward,

I watch the sky light up
and let my thoughts trickle over me
then disappear
knowing that acceptance is slow
and growth takes time.
the sun does not rise by mistake

One morning, when staying on the west coast of Sri Lanka in a town called Hikkaduwa, my friend Ty and I were joking about getting tattoos. I’m not sure how the joke started, but eventually it turned into an idea. It was our second last day in Sri Lanka – we were both catching flights out of the country. We both already have a few tattoos; Ty had collected his from around the world, but I had gotten my two from a trusted tattoo place in Melbourne called Heretic. However, we both want more. We have the bug. So when our joking began to turn serious, we started to brainstorm ideas. Neither of us had an image in mind, just vague ideas, but both being very spontaneous people, we started searching the web for inspiration, and tattoo parlours. Hikkaduwa is a medium-sized beach town, with a tourist side and the locals side. It was nowhere near being a city, though, so the options for tattoo parlours were limited. Some ‘saloons’ (salons) which offered hair cuts, facials, and massages, also offered tattoos. But to us, this seemed a bit dodgy. We had some standards.
Eventually we both came up with ideas for small tattoos; a circle on the back of my leg, two inches above my ankle, and a cube for Ty, on the back of his arm above his elbow. Both simple line tattoos. On Google, there seemed to be one tattoo parlour in Hikkaduwa, and one in Galle, the nearest city. However, this didn’t include the saloons or places that advertised tattooing outside their stores with cut-and-pasted Google images of tattoos. We contacted the place in Hikkaduwa, but they wanted to charge us $75 USD for a 5 cm tattoo each. Way too much. I could get a tattoo for this price from a high-end tattoo parlour in Melbourne.

The next option was to go to somewhere that advertised tattooing and try our luck there. As it was our last day in Sri Lanka, I was pretty determined to get one (it was also a belated birthday present to myself), so we tried a place that our tuk tuk driver recommended to us. The ‘parlour’ was a room inside a hairdressing studio, and the tattoo artist took about 40 minutes to reach the salon. Finally, he entered the room: a huge, overweight Sri Lankan with long hair tied back. The tray of equiptment was already laid out on the table, with ink made in Australia, packaged needles and ordinary napkins.

As we are both used to getting tattoos in the West, we were a little disconcerted when the artist began to draw our designs freehand. By freehand, I mean tracing a coin for my circle tattoo, and using a ruler to try to construct a cube for Ty. No perfectly printed out designs here. Although Ty and I knew what we were getting ourselves into when we decided to get a tattoo in a tiny shop in Hikkaduwa, I think we were both a bit disconcerted. Finally, the artist had drawn a perfectly round circle and traced it onto purple typewriter copy paper, which he then pressed onto my skin in the right spot. I examined it in the mirror for a while, making sure it was in the right place. It was. I lay down on the bed, which had ordinary home towels laid on it, and concentrated on my breathing as the tattooing began. It was the most painful one I’ve had yet, but that’s just because of the spot it is in. It was finished within ten minutes, and the artist wiped some cream on it and wrapped it up in cling film. During the tattooing, I had an audience of four people in the room; the hairdresser, her husband, the tattoo artists friend, and Ty. I was relieved when it was over, and I was happy with the result. I was expecting a less than perfect circle, without the security of using out a computer print out of a circle, but it was fine. Round and mostly even.

Next it was Ty’s turn. The artist had had a bit of trouble drawing a perfect cube, and Ty wasn’t going to settle for a dodgy design. All of his other tattoos are perfect. After finally agreeing on a design, the tattooing began. This time, things went wrong. First of all, the artist had only brought one needle as he thought he was doing just one tattoo. He had to use another tattoo gun, with another needle (not sure what type of needle this was). After half a minute of tattooing, he stopped and changed the gun and needle. He said that the second needle was a thick one, but he was going to use it on the side to make it thin. In the reflection of the mirror, I could see the panic in Ty’s face. The unprofessionalism of this man who he had trusted to give him a tattoo had just increased tenfold. A tense ten or fifteen minutes passed, until the tattoo was finished. The artist wrapped Ty’s arm in cling film, but had no tape to hold it together. Eager to get out of the small room, we paid the artist 10,000 LRK for both (about $40 AUD each) and left the place.

Ty wasn’t entirely happy with his tattoo. It wasn’t perfectly straight, with one edge a little wonky. I admitted that to him, but it really didn’t look as bad as he thought it did. I was happy with mine; it turned out exactly how I wanted it, for less than half of what I would have paid in Australia!

Overall, my experience of getting a tattoo in Sri Lanka was positive, but like always, it is so important to get one by someone you trust. Ty and I rushed into the decision, but next time I would choose more carefully, especially if I were getting something more complex than a single line circle. Be prepared to experience a little less professionalism than you would at home, because you have to remember that it is Sri Lanka after all. Things are done differently. If the spontaneous decisions grabs you, like it did with me, I say go with it! I have no regrets at all.

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/14/getting-a-tattoo-in-sri-lanka/feed/1tulsimoDay twenty four to thirty – Hikkaduwa to Colombo airporthttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/14/day-twenty-four-to-thirty-hikkaduwa-to-colombo-airport/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/14/day-twenty-four-to-thirty-hikkaduwa-to-colombo-airport/#commentsThu, 14 Dec 2017 08:45:04 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1506More Day twenty four to thirty – Hikkaduwa to Colombo airport]]>My last six days in Sri Lanka melded into a blur of eating cheap food, swimming in the ocean, lying in the sun, afternoon naps, drinking king coconuts, reading my Kindle, having philosophical conversations, and going to my new favourite cafe. Ty and I had spent the first half of our time travelling together on the move; we were both exhausted. After two full days of journeying on buses and tuk tuks, when we reached Hikkaduwa we were ready to ‘settle down’ for a bit. We could enjoy the luxury of unpacking our bags (well, throwing its contents out of it) and getting to know the area more. After spending two nights in the northern side of Hikkaduwa, we realised that the southern side was where it was happening.

One of the main factors influencing this move was the discovery of our now favourite cafe in Sri Lanka: ‘Salty Swamis’. It’s run by a well-travelled Sri Lankan guy who has lived in Melbourne for eight years, among other places around the world. The result of this can be seen in the cafe; it would fit right in to the hipster Fitzroy scene in Melbourne. It had REAL coffee (although still no soy milk, only coconut), which blew Ty and I, both coffee lovers, out of the water. The food, too, was amazing; healthy by western standards with symphonies of salad, hummus, avocado on toast, and smoothie bowls. Although I was still enjoying Sri Lankan food and had something spicy or fried for every meal, Ty was getting a little tired of having such heavy food and longed for salad and hummus. Although Salty Swamis is on the more expensive end of Sri Lankan cuisine, it’s still incredibly cheap for what it is, and the atmosphere and style of the cafe made me feel at home. It’s nice to find a home away from home.

Nothing really eventful happened during those six days. Ty and I got spontaneous tattoos one evening, but I’ll talk about this in another post. It was a lovely way to end my trip in Sri Lanka, and to chill out mentally before the next stage of my journey. I was also going over a few emotional speed bumps; a couple of friends had proven themselves to not be as good friends as I thought they were, and I broke up with my boyfriend in Australia. It was good to have lots of time to relax, swim, think and talk it out with Ty. On the 12th, we caught a bus to Colombo, as Ty happened to be returning to America on the same day that I was flying to India. One night in a gorgeous Air BnB, an Uber to the airport, and a 50 minute flight to Kochi. Let the next chapter of my journey commence!

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/14/day-twenty-four-to-thirty-hikkaduwa-to-colombo-airport/feed/3tulsimoDay twenty three – Negombo to Hikkaduwahttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/08/day-twenty-three-negombo-to-hikkaduwa/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/08/day-twenty-three-negombo-to-hikkaduwa/#respondFri, 08 Dec 2017 07:10:34 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1504More Day twenty three – Negombo to Hikkaduwa]]>My mosquito bites bothered me throughout the night. My legs and feet are covered in bites, collected from each place I have been to. Itchy souvenirs. We had a long journey to do today; we didn’t want to stay in Negombo, as it’s just another city. Our plan was to catch a bus from Negombo to Colombo, then from Colombo to Hikkaduwa, to beaches and small streets and less people. We set off to the bus station and found the place more chaotic than usual. That day, the railway workers had called a strike, and none of the trains around the Colombo area were running. Instead, everyone was pouring onto busses. The line for the bus going to Colombo snaked all the way out of the station, convincing me that it would be hours before we had a chance to catch a bus. Dejected, we went to a nearby cafe and tried to think of another plan. After an hour, we decided that it would be worth one more look at the bus station before we discarded that option. Lo and behold, the line had shrunk to about fifteen people! Within five minutes, we had boarded the air-conditioned bus and were on our way to Colombo.

After a comfortable bus ride (never thought I would say that about Sri Lankan busses), we hopped off in Colombo, walked around a street market to stretch our legs, then boarded another bus to Hikkaduwa this time. No air-conditioning, sadly, and a lot more passengers. The journey took around four hours, during which we sweated, talked about colonisation throughout history, nibbled on spicy snacks and stared out of the window. It also happened to be my 24th birthday, but to me it’s just another day. I like having my birthdays overseas, where I don’t feel an obligation to do something for it. When you travel, every day is a celebration.

We found a very nice guesthouse, bargained the price down, and had dinner at a restaurant that had salads (so rare in Sri Lanka) and jaffles. Delicious. At night we watched the fireflies flit around the garden and went to sleep with the fan on full blast. I felt relieved that we had finally made it to somewhere where we could relax for a few days, and not have to travel on trains and buses the next day. This thought lulled me into a blissful deep sleep.

]]>https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/08/day-twenty-three-negombo-to-hikkaduwa/feed/0tulsimoDay twenty two – Kuddawa to Negombohttps://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/08/day-twenty-two-kuddawa-to-negombo/
https://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/2017/12/08/day-twenty-two-kuddawa-to-negombo/#respondFri, 08 Dec 2017 06:42:46 +0000http://tulsimorton1.wordpress.com/?p=1502More Day twenty two – Kuddawa to Negombo]]>Sometimes travelling can be s-l-o-w. Going from one place to the next sounds simple enough, but it rarely is. It depends on so many factors, individuals, outside influences. Our morning got off to a slow start and set the pace for the rest of the day. For a few hours, before the sun rose to the middle of the sky, Ty and I sat outside in the shade and drank coconuts, talked, chased the piglets and played the ukulele. We didn’t know where we were going to – we just knew that we needed to go South in order to get to Mirissa for my birthday. And so began our achingly slow day of travelling.

We waited about half an hour for the tuk tuk our guesthouse host had ordered for us, glancing up every time a car rumbled past the gate. Finally, the tuk tuk came, and we bounced our way to Kalpitiya. From there we boarded a local bus that took us to Puttalam. The journey took half an hour on a scooter, but because the bus stopped every few minutes, it took nearly an hour and a half. Local busses have open windows, which blow cool air into the stifling heat that is a combination of the temperatre, humidity and body heat. We arrived to Puttalam, caught a tuk tuk to the train station, and waited an hour on the platform until a creaking red train arrived. We had no option but to travel third class, but I was interested to see what it would be like as I had only been in second class. Thied class has long plastic seats lining the edges of the carriages, open doors and windows that can be opened.

At first, the train journey was fun. I got some writing done on my laptop, Ty listened to music. After a few hours, the sun set and a flickering light came on above us. Looking at where we were on Google Maps, we hadn’t moved far. The people in the carriage around us all seemed to be coming home after a day of work; women in saris with handbags, men with briefcases. By the time night fell, only a few people were left in our carriage. Some were dozing, others gazing out of the window, and one man, who was sitting directly behind Ty, was staring intently at me.

While Ty and I were playing a card game on the seat between us (we only know two), a man with white hair, who was sitting across from us, began a conversation. He told us that we should move to the first carriage, as we were in the second last, and trains like this can be dangerous for white travellers. Every time I glanced over at the man sitting behind Ty, who was still staring at me. Not bothering to avert his gaze when I looked over at him. I am used to being stared at by Sri Lankan people who are interested in where I am from, but this look was beyond interest. I told Ty about the man, and he agreed that we should move carriages.

By this time we had been on the train for nearly four hours, and we weren’t even close to Negombo. It was about 8 p.m. We were starting to get irritated, by the jolting of the train and the unbearable slowness of it. We decided that it would be faster to get off at the next station and get a tuk tuk for the rest of the journey. It wasn’t. Every tuk tuk that drove past was occupied. When we finally found one, he got pulled over by the police, stuck in an unmoving traffic jam, and lost. Finally we got to Negombo, but had to find a place to sleep. After walking to a few hostels, with all of our bags and increasing hunger and irritation, we finally found a guesthouse to sleep in. Both of us were silent at dinner, exhausted from the day. We fell asleep quickly. Sometimes, you just have to accept that getting from A to B isn’t an option – you have to pass through Q, P and Z to get to B. But that’s okay, because I don’t travel to take the easy road.